


Red

by Jane St Clair (3jane)



Category: Smallville
Genre: Incest, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-08-09
Updated: 2011-08-09
Packaged: 2017-10-22 10:15:02
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,747
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/237003
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/3jane/pseuds/Jane%20St%20Clair
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Costume drama</p>
            </blockquote>





	Red

  
Lex has bite marks on his collar bone. They're not fresh, but there  
are fresh ones, only a few minutes old, on his neck and the rim of  
his ear. Delicate, capped teeth, utterly feminine, antithetically  
British. Small, primitive leisons claiming him.

The tiny glimpses of the bites that he catches in the mirror remind  
him of his mother's jewellery. The pink-ruby earrings that brushed  
the clean line of her neck in the evening. Matching necklace and  
tiara. Subtler than it should have been against the red of her hair.  
The edge of her perfume on her jewellery and her gloves. They were  
everything he claimed when she died. Her jewels somewhere in his  
Metropolis penthouse right now. They're not among the things on  
offer to Victoria.

And Lex can feel his father looking at him, the was he used to look  
when he found pieces of his wife's jewellery secreted in his  
adolescent son's bed. Lex's body in its hospital-sterile pyjamas,  
wrapped up tight around a single glove.

His father's fingers, holding the points of his skull when he woke  
up. One earring in the palm of his other hand.

There wasn't even a lecture for that moment, just a quirk of the  
man's eyebrows and a closed hand. His father still has that earring,  
as far as Lex knows.

His father's fingers are on his neck now, holding him still the same  
way he's holding the glass. Capable of smashing either one, but.  
Interested. Touching. Small, reading touches along the fresh bites  
on his neck, tracing them up to his ear. Holding the lobe of his  
ear.

Lex noticed, sometime around his mother's death, that there are  
three or four things Lionel doesn't say for each thing he does.  
Things Lex is expected to understand, and that he won't be allowed  
to challenge.

The latest one seems to be, *You look like your mother.*

It's not a fighting point. He does look like her. The hair he used  
to have was hers. The lines of his nose and ears are hers.

He remembers her wrapping one of her scarves around his newly-bared  
scalp, trying to replicate the missing colour. Red Tibetan silk,  
black threads in it. It was more vivid than his hair had been, but  
not much. He looked in the mirror, and he looked so much like her  
that she dropped the edges of the scarf that she'd been holding in  
place, and it fell.

He remembers his father kissing his mother's neck in the morning,  
sweeping her hair up to reach her skin.

Just his father's breath on his neck is enough to remind him of it.  
Their two-person universe was seperate from the one Lex shared with  
his mother, and inaccessible from the parallel single-person  
universes which he and his father occupy

The kiss that comes lets him remember, for a moment, the silk smell  
of her scarf on his head, and the illusion they'd made of a single  
person.

The translucence of his eyelids is enough to show him the hand  
moving in front of his face, even before the rim meets his lips.  
Cognac slides into his mouth out of warm glass.

The glass moves away before he expects it, and he's left leaning  
foward into the nothing-taste of the air. Eyes open, mouth open,  
tongue almost pressed between his lips. It's all he can do not to  
stagger, but he's held upright by his father's arm around his  
shoulder. Up and upright, very still while the glass moves out of  
view.

Almost-warm, wet touch of it to the back of his skull.

Breath slides out of his mouth before he can quite realize that it's  
going to be a sound instead of an exhalation.

"Hmm?"

"Dad."

"Yes."

Lionel's forehead nudges the base of Lex's skull. It cues some  
primal instinct to duck, protect the shell that protects his brain,  
maybe the only really valuable part of him. In the land of basic  
survival, he's not going to be dragging down mammoths, but he might  
outsmart one, if he's lucky. Or very, very basic.

He's forgotten how naked the back of his neck is until the moment  
his father closes a hand over it.

He can keep standing, at least. But Lionel's stronger than he is,  
and the grip he's using is appropriate for young, badly-behaved  
housepets.

The image of himself as a Sphinx cat is going to take years to get  
rid of.

And on some level, he does want. Wants this, the sheer force of  
Lionel Luthor's *want* thrown at him. This whole visit is an  
acknowledgement that Lex is necessary, that however sarcastically  
it's announced, he *does* have his father's attention.

The teeth touching his vertebra make every inch of his skin tense.

Close on him, pushing closer to the bone, until he's arching into  
the blind pain of that bite. Pulled tight by the arm now reaching  
across his chest, pressing as though Lionel expects it to hurt.

If he were a woman, it would hurt. Even the thought of that kind of  
pressure on soft breasts gives him a disturbing ghost-ache that he  
probably shouldn't examine too closely.

"Dad."

Lionel lets him go. Teeth and arm go in the same instant, and he  
steps away. Hands in his pockets in precisely the right way to  
impress the universe with what he's wearing. He isn't smiling.

Lex is trying desperately to pretend he isn't hard.

Lionel says, "Where are you sleeping these days?"

It's not a question he wants to answer. Too loaded, too much of a  
query into the state of his life, his sex life, and his business  
arragements. But *through there* is such an amazingly simple answer;  
it doesn't even require words, just a jerk of his head towards the  
door. Not Victoria's. His bedroom.

He has to want this.

And he must, because he walks, across the room and through the door  
and into his bedroom and to the foot of his bed without stopping. He  
must want this, because he just stands there until Lionel comes.  
Stands behind him, swirling even in the stillness of the house, and  
touches the back of his neck again. His own bite mark.

Tongue on it, the ghost of lips. It's stupidly tender, not something  
that belongs between them at all. His father hasn't touched him that  
gently twice in his entire life. Some other love that Lionel carries  
just underneath his skin, for which Lex makes an object.

He wishes his own motivations were nearly that clearly defined and  
neatly freudian.

He wasn't even half-hard for Victoria yet, but he's aching now.  
Pushing against the front of his pants in a way that's shortly going  
to be awkward to deny. Some part of him just loves these touches,  
the wet softness and the individuality of them. He's not being  
gnawed on, only tasted.

Some other part of him desperately wanting the red silk edges of the  
body he never had. Gemstones locked out of reach.

Supposed to look like *her*.

And maybe. His father's scarf, wrapped inside the swirl of his coat,  
isn't difficult to catch. It wraps around Lex's palms, makes a layer  
between his skin and the bed's footboard where he's gripping it. His  
father's fingers brush at his waist, tugging his shirt loose, and on  
some level Lex does understand what's happening. He bends forward  
when he's pushed, lifts his weight off each arm at the right  
moments, ducks to let the shirt slide over his head.

Naked back. Huge hands touching it. Edgeless nails, so white he can  
almost feel their lack of colour. Writing calluses on the right one.  
Hard edges of them that catch Lex's skin and tear at it.

Silk. Lionel's taken it out of Lex's hands. For a second he wonders  
whether it's going around his throat, and whether the publicity  
surrounding the Luthor heir's unfortunate death by sexual  
misadventure will have any serious effects on the company's profits  
next quarter. Then concentrates on breathing when he feels it slide  
behind him, body-warm and sharp-threaded on its edge.

It pours down his skull and spine. Red silk, and for just a second,  
even with the erection and the muscle lines Lex knows he's showing,  
he *is* her. Scarlet, silky, missing girl.

The kiss he gets after is seven kinds of inevitable. It turns him,  
rolls him back on his hips against the bedframe, pushes his father  
against him. The scarf's still there, clutched between his father's  
hands and his skull. Hot, almost.

If he is. Then he can. Pool of thin wool and silk-satin lining that  
forms when he pushes Lionel's overcoat off his shoudlers and it  
falls. Heavier breath of his suit coat, the snake of his tie. Raw,  
hand-dyed, some minor work of art almost lost in the moving oceans  
of Lionel's wardrobe. Shirt. Belt.

Shoes that he has to actually kneel to take off. Buried in discarded  
clothing, looking up, showing the profile that *isn't* hers for a  
necessary moment.

"Get up."

On his back, on his bed, under his father. Both of them only naked  
to the waist, kissing through this current level of obscenity. His  
father's tongue in his mouth, sliding and hot, sharper than the  
alcohol he had earlier. His father's knee between his thighs.  
Disturbingly childish, half-frantic. Some suggestion of the awkward  
lover who must have existed some time two or three decades ago. It's  
gone, though, by the time Lionel next shifts. When his trousers are  
gone, and Lex's are trapped around his thighs, and he's being  
deliberately *held* down while Lionel takes his mouth.

He's naked and he *wants*. Aching without actually knowing what he  
wants clearly enough to ask for it. Nothing he can ask for, not  
without breaking. Has to wait, see what Lionel wants, then give  
before Lionel can take it.

Stretch when he's stretched. Arm above his head flexing, mouth on  
the underside fascinated by his nakedness. Spread when he's touched.  
There's a bare calf against his that he can trace with his toes.

He can kiss back.

Arch when he's slicked.

Disturbing instincts, again. Crawling along his skin, making him  
understand the ways he needs to open, like her/not like her, naked  
like she never was, harder than he can ever remember her being.  
There are instants he can use to scream out which of them he is.

The fingers in him keep searing towards something he understands.  
Gut-twist reminder of how good it is every time it hurts.

His father on top of him doesn't look old enough. Too young under  
the silvering hair and the cut lines of his face. Lionel never quite  
looks at him, always just past him, to his shoulder or his neck,  
some stretch of his skin. The mouth that drops to suck the fading  
bite-marks on his neck looks like a boy's, looks more like Clark's  
more than any adult's should. There's this want in him that doesn't  
slip even when Lionel holds him down, pushes him wide, and takes  
him.

The slick burn of the first thrust isn't enough to make him whimper,  
but Lex can't swallow the breath it forces out of him. God, *deep*  
in him, angled sharp enough to force his eyes wide. Silk-twist  
against his scalp that he arches against.

Reminder that he isn't losing anything. He's giving it first,  
better, harder than Lionel can want it. Exactly how Lionel wants it.  
His skin, his body, his smell, his knees hooked around his father's  
hips, his chest-growls that get louder every time Lionel thrusts  
hard enough. Hand locked on his wrist, loose enough that he could  
shake it off, but holding. Careful of every bone in spite of the  
rough fuck.

Leaving marks, but only the right ones. Careful love like jewellery.  
Diamonds, rubies. On your back for very rich men...

Lex laughs. Out loud, convulsively, still growling underneath it.  
Arms and legs both wrapped around his father, pulling him down.  
Hissing into his ear, "Dad."

Lionel pushes him down. Holds him flat, both shoulders against the  
bed, holds still in him, looks at him hard. "Jesus, Lex."

He pulls out. It leaves Lex aching and needing to pull in on  
himself, but he doesn't. It'll still hurt later, when he can deal  
with it. Sprawled out on his own bed, in the mess of rucked-up seven  
hundred thread-count comforter, half-fucked and so obviously himself  
that it might be Lionel's cue to go blind.

And he still needs, but this is its own kind of good. He can leave  
now, take a shower, beat off and store his genderfucked electra  
complex for the next therapist he decides to torment with the state  
of his psyche.

Halfway up when Lionel catches his shoulder and slams him back to  
the bed.

"Roll over."

It's clear, if nothing else. On his belly, not even hands and knees,  
showing his skull, his back, his ass, and spread open.

Lionel fucks him that way. Hard.

Until Lex is finally just grunting with it, obviously male in a way  
that he always comes back to. Less assertive than his father's  
growls, if only Lex is being given to understand which of them is  
currently being fucked. If it feels good, this is mostly a function  
of his own diseased brain. Nothing to do with the cock inside him  
rubbing his prostate as efficiently as a hand on his cock. A great  
deal to do with the way his whole body opens up to a single open-  
mouthed kiss on his shoulder.

He stays belly-down until he comes, breathing loud without managing  
to even say anything as damaging as *daddy*. Then rolls onto his  
side and feels Lionel take him again, knee up to his chest, head  
down. A rough, body-wet handful that he only gradually recognizes as  
his father's scarf rubs the back of his neck.

"Fucking beautiful."

"Mmmm?"

"You're mine, Lex."

Too damn sure of himself. "I'm hers."

Teeth again. And Lionel laughs at him. It rolls against Lex like  
every jerk of the cock inside him, rips along the side of his face  
while Lionel bends him forward to the mattress, holds him down, and  
comes.

Lex is shaking. He throws it off in a second, but it involves  
throwing Lionel off too. Getting up and walking in spite of the  
body-ache nagging at him.

When he glances back, Lionel's still there, back and shoulder to  
him, sprawling across the bed like a settled, unnerving animal.  
Watching him, but not obviously, and if he wants anything, it's not  
immediately clear.

If he wants to stop Lex from going through his pockets, all he has  
to do is get up.

Wallet, two credit cards, basic identification. It's all Lex carries  
himself, and he only needs both cards because this far out from  
Metropolis it's hard to find a card everyone will accept. Platinum  
plastic that never seems to warm to body-temperature. His father's  
watch. His keys. The earring.

Lex holds it up. Some part of him is disturbed or twistingly  
triumphant that he's made his father carry it for this long.

Lionel looks up. "That one is, in fact, yours. I have its companion  
at home."

Lex drops it into the pile of crumpled wool. Gets up and walks out.

He doesn't think he could wander through the house this naked.  
There's Victoria out there, and Amy. Possibly Clark, because Lex  
can't remember at the moment whether he ordered any form of Kentish  
organic flora today. But the sitting room door's closed, and there's  
alcohol out there. Naked man with brandy snifter, a newly discovered  
Magritte painting. Naked man is being swallowed by a French Horn.

He needs another drink.

He's on his way to being very drunk when Lionel comes out, fully  
dressed and smirking. When he was still sober enough to think about  
details, Lex sat in the window so that every bite mark on his neck  
would catch the light.

Lionel offers him the earring. Rubies almost disembodied on their  
platinum backing, too flexible to be stone.

Lex says, "Keep it."

Lionel nods. He pockets the earring, then picks up the bottle and  
pours Lex what's now his fourth drink in twenty minutes. Sets the  
bottle down and pulls a red smear out of his pocket.

He drops the scarf across Lex's thigh before he leaves him alone.

Lex manages to get most of his next drink all over it.

  



End file.
